Neutron Star Collision
by BEN-Beyond the Elusive Nomads
Summary: Shepard never really recovered after the attack on Akuze. She leaves the Alliance for good, hoping to put her past behind her, but Shepard has never been good at coping. After five years she books the first flight off of Earth and finds herself in a battle of the wills with an ex-C-Sec officer mourning the loss of his best friend. Shakarian AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One:**

The first rule Shepard ever learned was to keep your head down low and not to draw attention to yourself; it was a rule that protected her from the ruthless streets of Earth. It was the first thing the Reds had ever taught her. That wasn't a time she was proud of – she never had been – but she owed them her life time and time again. The lessons she learned kept her alive.

_Even when everyone else was dead._

Guilt clawed at her throat and she stubbornly pushed it down and pulled up her hood, obscuring her face from anyone who thought to get too curious. She didn't carry much with her, just a duffle tossed over her shoulder and weighted down with clothes and some rations. She'd packed more than enough for the trip ahead of her, but she couldn't help but feel completely and totally unprepared. It was almost exhilarating. Here she was, breaking free of the restrictions that had encumbered her, weighed her down and made her back break under the pressure. She was finally free to breathe.

Shepard didn't know what it was that prompted her to finally board the ship to who-knows-where. She hadn't even looked at the location until she'd bought the damn ticket. She'd found the one ship that was leaving within the week and got on it. Simple, clean, efficient. For the first time in 5 years she would be off Earth and back in space, and this time it would be on her terms. Not the Alliances.

She waited in line, shuffling her weight from foot to foot as she cautiously scanned the boarding zone, picking out potential threats like it was second nature. And maybe it was now – maybe that was what life in the Alliance had done to her. You didn't survive the things the Alliance put you through without gaining a healthy sense of paranoia.

She finally made it to the gate, showed the flight attendant her boarding pass and watched almost anxiously as she scanned the barcode. She knew it was a legitimate ticket, but that panic always set in. A part of her was afraid something would happen, that they would force her to stay here surrounded by memories and echoes of people she'd never really had.

The flight attendant just smiled at her as the ticket cleared, passing it back into her waiting hand. "Enjoy your flight, ma'am."

Shepard offered a haphazard grin and took her stub, folding it and shoving it in her back pocket as she adjusted the weight of her bag and made her way through. Commercial cruisers were drastically different from the military frigates she was used to traipsing around in. They were large and, depending on the grade, made for comfort. This wasn't the nicest cruiser she had ever boarded, but it was large and she was fairly certain that she'd shelled out enough credits to get herself a private room. There were two observation decks that stretched around the perimeter of the cruiser, guaranteeing that if she had one of her panic attacks she would have an open place to sit until her claustrophobia abated. Hopefully that wouldn't be necessary.

She stopped an usher, awkwardly asking for directions to her cabin, and he kindly pointed her in the right direction. She didn't know if his kindness was reassuring, or unsettling.

She walked quickly, not wanting to linger amongst the eager tourists for too long, and found her door with little trouble. She awkwardly stepped in front of the scanner, wiggling her butt in hopes that it would catch the signal of her pass without her having to take it from her pocket. The light flickered green and the door slid open.

One glance of the room told her that the cabin was small, cramped, and a one-way-ticket to a panic attack.

Yeah. She was going to be spending a lot of time on the observation deck.

After dropping off her duffle she pushed her way through the crowds of families and wide-eyed earthers who hoarded the view, standing as close to the glass as they dared as they watched the planet disappear below them. The cruiser didn't move nearly as fast as military grade vessels, despite the fact that it made them a walking target for slavers and pirates alike, so she expected the trip to the Citadel would take at least three days. It was more than enough time for her to mark her territory.

She pushed through people until she hopped up on a bench to get a view of her surroundings, keen military eyes scanning the layout until she found an open seat with a good view of the stars and the people alike. There was no room for an attack from behind, enough room to maneuver away in case of an emergency, and free off obtrusive tourists: It was perfect.

Shepard inhaled softly, bracing herself, and pushed her way through the crowds. She murmured apologies as she went, keeping her head low, and for the most part people ignored her. She didn't relax until she was safely seated in her new perch, feet firmly planted and ready to jump up at any moment. Safety was an illusion, one she could little afford, and she had no plans of completely dropping her guard on this vessel.

Time passed slowly, and eventually the excited civilians dispersed back into their cabins. Kids cried as they begged their parents to stay, wanting to look out onto the wide expanse of space for just a moment longer. Their hunger got the best of them, as it always did, and the kids finally wandered off in search of new entertainment and food. Shepard knew what it was like to see space for the first time, knew the exhilaration and the fear that it stirred in your gut. It was a potent mixture of sensation, and to an adrenaline junkie it was about as close as you could get to heaven without actually dying.

Even now the knowledge of what the vacuum of space held for her sent a chill down her spine. She knew the structures of ships, had been on her way to a promising job designing more than just a new omni-tool upgrade. She knew how just one small shift, one small malfunction, could send the ship into a metaphorical tailspin. What that actually meant was the air could be sucked from the ship faster than you could scream, and by the time you brain had a chance to realize that you were dead the lights were already off and your body was already empty.

It was terrifying. She was terrified.

She didn't move.

…

It didn't take very long for the other passengers to learn that this bench was her bench. Aside from a few hours of the sleep cycle and the occasional visit to the cafeteria, that was where she perched. She would pace in front of the bench, leaving something to mark the spot as taken, and she would even do a few work outs in front of it. The point was made after a few hours: This was Shepard's bench. No touchy.

The jump from the Local Cluster to the Exodus Cluster was inconsequential: a day trip in comparison to the journey ahead of her. Barely anyone switched out at Eden Prime. Ever since the attack earlier that year people were hesitant to approach the colony – most of the people travelling too and from were construction crew attempting to rebuid from the ground up. They did gain a few new faces, but they learned just as quickly that the bench was her territory. The trip to the Citade was only slightly longer, but still just the beginning of her adventure.

They reached the Serpent Nebula late the second day, and when they docked at the Citadel the next morning Shepard finally abandoned her perch, preferring to hole up in her room while the register changed. At least eighty percent of the passengers left ship at the Citadel, and only a handful of people stayed on for the next stop.

Omega was endgame. Shepard figured she would fit in well there.

She got her rest somewhere in the middle of the day cycle, knowing it would be easier to reestablish her claim on her bench when everyone else was sleeping, and crept from her cabin about halfway into the night cycle. She ran stiff fingers through the copper strands of hair as she pulled it back into a clip, yawning away the vestiges of sleep as she made her way towards her bench.

Halfway there she slowed, her eyes narrowing in on her spot.

Except, it wasn't her spot anymore. Someone else was in her spot.

She kept her pace casual, her brain jumping ahead of itself and cataloguing everything she could about the space invader. He was a turian – clearly a he, the spurs and the fringe gave that much away – with steely grey plates. He stared out through the glass, leaning forward and bracing his weight on his knees. Ex-Military most likely, maybe even C-Sec if the colour of his armor was anything to go off of. His visor told her he was a sniper – no one wore those if they weren't gifted in the arts of taking off a mans head from twenty thousand feet away. She'd worn one once – the remnants of it were shoved in her duffle, a memento of all the things she'd lost.

She knew the turian knew the seat was taken. Well, maybe not taken, but she knew the bench reeked of Eau de Shepard. One whiff of her and he would piece things together. Maybe he would leave. She doubted it. Turians were stubborn bastards, and territorial to boot.

The way she figured, she had two options. She could find a new seat, or she could sit by him and make him as uncomfortable as possible until he realized that he'd encroached on her territory. The bench was smaller than most, so sitting by him would be a little cramped, but it was the impact of the thing moreso than the thing itself.

She shoved her hands in the pockets of her hoodie and kept on her course. No man had ever deterred her before, and she'd never let one get away with taking what she saw as rightfully hers. She'd get that seat back. All she had to do was be patient. Turian's liked their personal space, she knew that after a few minutes he would give in and go find somewhere else.

He didn't even spare her a glance as she took her seat, but she saw the shift of his gaze in the reflection – though he wasn't looking at her, he was very definitely looking at her reflection. She lounged back, setting on the edge of the bench and letting her shoulders support her weight while her legs stretch out in front of her. If she was going to wait this out, she was going to get as comfortable as possible.

No one took what was hers. Even if it was a stupid fucking seat.

...

A/N: And thus, the beginning of Neutron Star Collision. The chapters are going to be significantly shorter than my standard fare for Causation, just because in this instance I'm fairly certain shorter is better. There will be alternating POV's throughout - one chapter will be Shepard, the next will be Garrus. And there will be a LOT of backstory in this and hopefully you'll enjoy how I interpreted everything.

Enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**

Garrus Vakarian was having a bad day. Except, that didn't really cover the scope of how bad things were. It would be more fitting to say that he was having a bad month.

When Garrus left the Normandy two months back it'd been so he'd be ready for the next fight – because there was always going to be a next fight. Saren wasn't the end of this war: the Reapers were. And they were still coming, whether the council wanted to admit it or not. He'd told the Commander that the Citadel needed him now, needed someone to keep the truth alive. The Commander had just grinned carelessly, giving Garrus a pat on the back and sending in a letter of recommendation to the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance office behind his back. Within a week he was in line for spectre training.

"We could use more specters at our backs, Garrus," he had written. "I can't think of anyone else I'd want at my six."

So, he'd accepted. It was what the Commander wanted, after all, and the Commander was an intimidating man. You didn't say no to him – or, if you did, you had better hope he liked you.

Balancing life at C-Sec and his spectre training was difficult, but so worth it. He couldn't think of anything else he'd rather do. He just kept thinking that one day he would be the one flying in to help the Commander, that he would be one of the specters responsible for saving the galaxy.

It didn't take much for reality to come storming in like a krogan in an antique shop.

The Commander was dead now. Spaced, if the reports were to be believed, by nothing more than geth. Geth! Garrus didn't believe that for a second. The Commander was too good to be taken out by a rogue faction of geth. The Normandy was too good to be destroyed like that.

But the Council's word was law, and their word was that the Commander had been killed by geth out in the terminus systems. The fact remained that no matter how it happened, the end result was still the same.

The Commander was dead, and Garrus couldn't help but think that it was his fault. If he had been there, maybe he could have pulled him to safety. Maybe they could have made it out to laugh about it later. 'Hey, remember that time the geth tried to kill us? Haha, those were good times.'

Except they weren't, and the Commander was dead, and now Garrus was sitting on a commercial ship headed towards Omega – home of the scum and filth that infested the deepest corners of the galaxy. What was he thinking when he bought that ticket?

Oh, right. His best friend was dead, the ship that had acted as a home destroyed, and that if he didn't leave the Citadel that instant he would find himself on the opposite side of the prison cells. He could only take so many people badmouthing the Commander before his patience snapped. It would be better to get away where no one knew his name, no one knew that yes, he was the Garrus Vakarian, and yes he still believed in the Commander's mission.

If he felt like lying to himself he would say that he came to Omega to honor the Commanders memory – crime was the number one job opportunity on the hell hole they called a station, and if there were any sort of leads on the Reapers he would probably find it there. He knew that was only a small truth. Really, he was sick of sticking to the red tape. He was sick of letting people he knew were rotten go because their lawyers could weasel their way out of every little charge. He was sick of staring evil in the eye and being unable to kick them where it hurt.

Omega was different – Omega had no law. He didn't have to tip toe around the lines. Here, he made his own lines. Here the only thing keeping him back was himself.

Garrus was early to the boarding zone – so early that he watched as the cruiser docked and the flood of humans disembarked. The ship was from Earth, meaning that the Citadel's human-to-alien ratio just went up.

He got on board just after the last stragglers left, his bag tossed over his shoulders and the vague schematics of the ship floating around in his head. Finding his bunk was easy enough, though the idea of leaving his things in a room he shared with three other unknowns unsettled him in the worst way. He would rather carry his things around, thanks.

He scanned over the mostly-empty observation deck, trying to find the best seat he could. He hated cramped quarters, preferred to have some breathing room. The Normandy had really spoiled him, and maybe not in a good way. There were no electronics to fiddle around with while they travelled, so he settled with finding a seat with the best view.

The bench he eventually settled on was small, nestled slightly away from the others with a good view out the glass and through the crowds. The likelihood of someone sneaking up on him from there was slim to none. With a satisfied hum he tossed his bag on the floor and settled himself in to the less than comfortable seat. It wasn't as bad as some of the cruisers he'd been on, but it was still pretty miserable.

The scent, however, was distracting. Someone from the last trip had claimed it as their own – he almost thought that it was another turian or even a salarian with how studiously they'd marked the area, but if there was one thing he'd quickly learned it was how to differentiate between the basic smells of the different species. Turians always had a vaguely metallic scent to them, whereas salarians had a more watery scent – oceanic or swampy, depending on which area of Sur'Kesh they hailed from.

This scent had the earthy smell of human stamped all over it – petrichor, the smell of dust after rain. From there the scent was floral, though his brain struggled to place a name to anything specific. He wasn't entirely familiar with human agriculture aside from a few of the Earth-based poisons that inevitably snuck their way onto the Citadel.

For a few minutes he considered searching the other deck – maybe they had a seat just as safe without the distracting musk of human. In the end it didn't take long for him to get used to the smell, and he figured that leaving was more trouble than it was worth. It was a long trip and the scent would fade eventually.

He stayed awake as the rest of the afternoon passed, keeping his eyes on the people who abandoned the caves they called rooms to investigate the view. When the night cycle started he allowed himself to relax slightly – even with the influx of species, the carrier was still predominantly human and this ships sleep cycle was very clearly based on the humans 24-hour one. That would be weird, but he'd get over it easily enough. It wasn't like Omega had a sleep cycle.

He was about to get up and see what dextro-food they had in stock when he spotted a human making her way towards him in the reflection of the glass. He watched her curiously – she certainly didn't seem to be changing direction, and she was looking very pointedly at his bench. For a moment he worried that they would have trouble, but as she passed under the ventilation the fresh air rustled her hair and her scent languidly wafted towards him.

Ah. This was _her _bench.

He continued to watch her through her reflection as she finally reached the bench and sat herself down right next to him. She stretched out, taking up more room than a human rightly should, and he was surprised to realize that she was doing it on purpose. He nearly laughed (and considering the recent state of his mood that was a miracle in and of itself). He'd never known humans to be especially territorial (at least, not to the degree of turians) but this one seemed rather perturbed that he dared ignore her claim.

Had it been a turian, he would have apologized and let them have the damn seat. It wasn't worth getting in a – how was it the Commander had always phrased it, a 'pissing contest'? It wasn't worth fighting over, at least. But the fact was that a human was the one throwing a tiny temper tantrum over the bench and she'd had the quad to march right up and challenge him.

Spirits knew he needed some form of entertainment while he was on this damned vessel – it looked like he'd just found one. He avoided looking directly at her reflection, but he could see her eyes boring into his – she wasn't even being subtle about it. If he moved even an inch his knee would brush against hers.

He idly pressed a button on his visor and started a timer.

_Lets see just how long this human lasts._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three:**

She lasted fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes after she took her seat, stretching out to take up as much room as possible without actively touching him, her back started to cramp. She was used to dealing with uncomfortable positions, but that was a long time ago. She hadn't had to practice that particular skill set for five years now, and she hated to admit it but she was a little rusty. It was with a begrudging frown that she sat up, arching her back and popping the sore muscles that seemed to scream out in relief. She couldn't hold back the soft exhale that pushed past her lips and the subtle fluttering of her eyelashes. God, that felt good.

The turian was looking at her when she opened her eyes. Not directly of course – no, he was all too aware of the game they were playing. Her eyes met his in the reflection, and her resolved hardened. She was getting this goddamn bench back.

She shifted positions, leaning away from the turian and bracing her upper body on the arm of the bench; time for a different tactic. She braced her foot against the seat of the bench, centimeters from brushing the armor protecting his leg, and stretched the other out in front of her. The definition of "personal bubble" had been quite vigorously popped at that point, and she didn't even bother to apologize. She propped her head up on her palm, staring out into space.

To be completely honest, she didn't know what kind of reaction she had expected. A part of her thought he would just sigh in that weird flanging voice that all turians had and get up to find a new seat. Another part of her thought that he would just confront her, tell her to stop being a bench hog before he physically removed her.

No. The bastard didn't do any of those things.

He stretched his arms, working his shoulder joint with a subtle trill that made the hairs on her arm perk up. Her exhaled, his mandibles fluttering as he relaxed into his spot and braced his arm on the back of the bench. Were he human she might have punched him, but she doubted turians knew the old yawn-and-stretch trick. His limbs were long compared to hers, and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rustle as his fingers stirred the air. Every subtle twitch brushed against the fine strands, tickling the back of her neck, and she forced herself to just grin and bear it. Metaphorically speaking. She wasn't grinning at all.

If there was one thing she hated, it was when people touched her neck. It drove her insane – and not in a good way. He was a hair away from getting a fist to the face – literally. Despite how much his nearness irked her, she was the one who had started this stupid game and she would be damned if she let him win.

She shifted to run her fingers over her neck and tuck the stray strands of hair back into place, pretending not to notice as her fingers just barely brushed against the material of his gloves. This position was significantly more comfortable than the last, but it didn't make it any less stressful. She knew within a few minutes her back would protest yet again and she would have to move. Now was just a matter of one-upping him.

Thirty minutes passed before she finally couldn't ignore the protests of her calf and her side. She sat up, not so quickly as to succumb to vertigo, and shifted yet again. The relief that went through her tense muscles was instantaneous and she attempted to keep the groans that built in her throat to a minimum. She shifted her weight to the other side, bracing her back at an angle against the bench that allowed her to lean into him without actually touching him. She tossed one leg over the rail she'd previously leaned against and kept her other foot braced against the floor. It made it more difficult for her to read his reaction, but the reflection pulled through yet again.

_'One-up this, bitch'_ she thought, and she realized with a shock that there was actually a part of her that was enjoying this little battle of the wills. That wasn't something that happened often.

He didn't move for a long moment and she could feel his eyes on her, though he still faced straight ahead. A few moments passed before he crossed his legs as best as a turian could, placing his foot closer to her torso and letting his hand drape over the back of the bench. If she made a move, either his hand or his foot would brush against her. She nearly cursed, instead feeling her eyebrow tick in irritation. She'd accidentally handed this game to him on a silver platter.

Forced into a corner, she made a decision: she was not moving until he did. She didn't know how long he had been on this bench before she'd attempted to reclaim it, but it was a decent ways into the night cycle. He would either have to sleep or eat or hell even pee sometime. If she just outlasted him then she had this game in the bag.

Not moving was harder than it sounded. Her legs were cramping, her sides aching, and the most she could do to alleviate the aching in her neck without leaning into him was to rest her head against the bench. At least his hand wasn't near her neck, anymore.

Fifteen more minutes passed, and she realized they had been at it for an hour. Surely he had to get up soon?

As if her prayers were answered the turian sighed, pulling his arm back and uncrossing his legs as he stood. She pretended not to notice as he rolled his shoulders and shook out his leg – it had probably fallen asleep. He left his duffle as he headed off to God knows where, and she had the decency to wait until he was out of sight before standing and reclaiming her seat. She couldn't even brush the cocky smile off her lips, and she hesitantly admitted that it wasn't just due to the fact that she'd won their mini battle of the wills.

She looked down, considering his duffel, and sighed. She carefully nudged it over to the other side of the bench before settling in, curling up in her newly reclaimed spot and propping her head up on her palm.

Two minutes passed and the turian returned with two drinks in his hand. He quirked a brow plate at the new arrangement, but when she made no move to deter his return he simply settled down in his new seat. He handed her a drink and she accepted it hesitantly, giving him a suspicious look. Surely he hadn't gotten her a dextro drink?

"It's just water," he said, speaking for the first time. She was surprised at the tone of his voice – it wasn't nearly as deep as she had anticipated, though that wasn't to say it was high pitched. His tone – dry and humored – added a point in his favor. Clearly, unlike many of his brethren, the stick shoved up his half was at least half the size of the usual model.

She only hesitated to sniff at the liquid, searching for any discernable scent other than the clear tones of water. The likelihood of her catching anything through scent alone was slim, but ignoring the instinctive search would have left her feeling about a thousand times more paranoid. She hesitated a moment more before taking a drink, relaxing as the cold liquid rushed down her parched throat and soothed her almost instantly.

She waited until nothing happened before managing a smile. "Thanks."

He nodded. "I've never met a human so territorial over a bench before," he commented, watching as she lounged back.

"I've never met a turian who thought he could out last me," she retorted quickly, taking another sip. "Most would have just let me have the bench."

He grinned – or at least, that's what she thought the wide flaring of his mandibles meant, she wasn't certain. "Most turians aren't me."

She snorted, nearly choking on her water. He was a cocky bastard. She offered a grin in return, "I'm starting to see that."

She had recovered nicely from her near-death-experience, but she couldn't help the next thought that slithered through her mind and nearly made her drop her drink: was he flirting with her? And shit, was she flirting back? Shepard could almost hear the Reds now. _Leave the group for one goddamn minute and suddenly you're a fuckin' alien lover. What happened to you, Shep?_

She pushed the imaginary words of her old childhood friends away, shoving them deep into a chest and locking them away for at least the rest of the night. No good came from letting old prejudices that weren't even hers to begin with colour a conversation.

If he noticed the dark turn of her thoughts he didn't say anything. He leaned back in his seat, bracing his arm along the back as he sipped at his own drink. It wasn't water, she could tell by the smell alone, but aside from that she had no clue. She didn't know anything about dextro-drinks, let alone what they tasted like.

"So, why were you so insistent on reclaiming this bench?" the turian asked – and shit, she didn't even know his name. It would be awkward to ask now, right?

"It's got the best view," she responded, pointing towards the far end of the deck. "This side stays clear of too many stragglers, I have a clear view of the exits, and I can see the stars. It's a win-win."

"Those are good reasons," he admitted, the faintest tone of surprise lacing his words. "Military?"

"Ex," she shrugged nonchalantly. No need to mention her 'extreme case of paranoia', as her therapist had so gently put it. "You?"

"Ex," he echoed with a nod.

They didn't say anything after that for a long while, and Shepard turned her attention back to space. This time she wasn't using it as a cover to look at him. The subtle edge of panic had worked its way into her brain, making her constantly aware of how close he was and silently cataloguing all her escape routes. She didn't let the relatively-irrational fear cripple her – on the outside she remained as cool and collected as she'd always been. She knew that he could tell she wasn't, though. Those visors were good for more than just sniping.

It wasn't that he made her uncomfortable, per se. It was moreso she was making herself uncomfortable. You didn't go through the shit she did without earning a few scars on the way, and unfortunately not all of hers had healed yet. She wondered how long it would take him to notice that she was just another broken toy.

She took a long, slow drink to distract herself and realized that maybe this was a game she should have left well enough alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four:**

The humans fortitude surprised him. It was a slow game, a battle of wills that he wasn't quite willing to lose, but when he saw how determined she was to win he couldn't bring himself to be so petty as to take this victory from her. Not when she cared about it more than he did. So instead, he went to go get something to drink. He grabbed some water as an afterthought, thinking that she might appreciate the gesture. A peace offering was a peace offering, of course.

He figured after he got back she would either kick him off the bench or stretch out so he had to find somewhere else to rest. Either way, the water could serve as a congratulations. When he returned and saw that she'd left half the bench for him, he grinned. It made him feel a little better about his decision to grab her something to drink. He settled back in with ease, more comfortable now that they weren't silently sizing each other up.

Or at least, he thought they weren't. For all he knew she could be trying to figure out the best way to kill him.

"So, ex-military. Why did you leave?" she asked after a lingering break in conversation. He grinned, though the expression was a hollow mimic of the real thing.

"That's personal," he responded. "You?"

She mirrored his expression, meeting his gaze and twisting her lips into a dry, humorless smile. "It's personal."

He chuckled, taking a sip of his tupari and turning to stare back through the glass and into space – if he tried hard enough he could pretend he was back on the _Normandy_. If he allowed himself he could forget everything that had happened and just slip back into his old ways. He didn't, though. Some things you could never forget, and other things you couldn't allow yourself to forget. The _Normandy_ was both of those things.

"Maybe something less personal, then," he compromised. "Why did you join the military?"

That same grin – the not-quite-honest expression that left her eyes hollow – crossed over her features. "Oh, you know. Fame, glory. I wanted to see the world."

"Liar," his mandibles bristled humorlessly. "Only idiots join for fame and glory."

"Maybe I'm an idiot," she tilted her head and met his gaze straight on. There was something about her that was sad – as if a piece of her had been chipped away long ago – but despite that she still looked startlingly strong. Garrus knew a few humans, spent most of his life watching them, and this one…this one was familiar. It was like he was missing some glaring neon sign trying to tell him the truth, but the longer he stared at it the harder it was to read.

"No, an idiot doesn't scope out benches," he disagreed with a shake of his head. Instead of commenting further he offered his own reason: "I stayed in the military to make my family proud. I left to join C-Sec after my fathers' footsteps."

She laughed dryly, turning and watching the stars. "Did it make you feel better?" she asked. He blinked.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Did it make you feel better, doing what he wanted you to do?" she reiterated. "Making him proud. Was it satisfying?"

He considered her question, letting the silence linger for a moment before slowly shaking his head. "Maybe for a while, yeah. But the further you climb the ladder, the more red tape you have to step through. I can name at least fifty deadbeats on the Citadel who deserve a life behind bars, and all of them are still running free because the rules wont let us catch them. You spend a few years in C-Sec and you learn that no matter how hard you work sometimes it's just not enough."

The silence continued long after he finished speaking. Her head was tilted towards him, showing him that she had listened, and her face was drawn in consideration. Part of him wanted to know what she was thinking. Part of him wondered why he cared.

"If I were you, I think I would be on this ship too," she finally said. She grinned, a silly expression that showed that the following words weren't at all meant to be taken seriously: "So, do you think, in some alternate universe you and I are still sitting here on this bench, except there I'm the ex-C-Sec officer and you're the jaded soldier?"

"Who says I'm not the jaded soldier?" he countered, raising his jaw slightly. "I was ex-military too."

"Well, why don't you tell me about it?" she looked at him, draping her arm over the back of the chair and propping her head up almost stubbornly. "Bring some alcohol and we can turn it into a drinking game. Each time we have something in common, we take a drink. Or, we just sit and drink until suddenly our problems don't see like problems any more."

"That doesn't sound like the healthiest way of dealing with things," he pointed out. He knew that mostly because it was how he'd dealt with the Commanders death. Leaving in search for another purpose got him away from the temptation. Giving in now was just another failure. She shrugged carelessly, no doubt completely unaware of his true meaning.

"Why not? It's fun, simple, cheap entertainment." Her grin sharpened. "It's not like they can kick us off for disorderly behavior."

"I think kicking civilians out of the airlock is frowned upon in most civilized societies," he dryly agreed.

"See? No way this can go wrong." She reclined again, making herself comfortable in her seat as she considered him with keen eyes that made his nerves stand on end. How much could she really see about him? She was perceptive, he could tell just by the way she handled their conversation, and perceptive often meant dangerous. He didn't think getting drunk with her was something to list under the 'Great Ways To Survive' column.

"Ask me again in three days." He said instead.

She shrugged, turning her attention back to the outside. While up until now he had treasured the silence for the privacy it afforded him, now…now was different. His issues that were very quickly bubbling to the surface of his psyche were still there, but when they bantered back and forth they were pushed down just enough so he could pretend that they didn't exist. It was a strange sort of freedom, but now that he'd stopped thinking about the pain that wrapped around his chest like the fist of an angry krogan he wasn't too keen on letting it come back.

"What about you, then?" he asked, ignoring the part of him that chastised himself for continuing their little dance. It was just a simple conversation. He could handle that

"What about me?" she responded just as quickly, green eyes sliding over to meet his.

"What makes you the jaded soldier?" he elaborated, tilting his head and giving her another once over. This time, his assessment was based on what he did know instead of what he didn't. Ex-Military, that explains the stance, possibly explained why she was so territorial. Her eyes were sharp even past the subtle coat of pain that lingered just under the surface, which made him think she had to have been more of a long-distance fighter. Possibly a sniper like him? Or maybe an engineer, someone used to picking out the most inconsequential of details. It didn't tell him much, but it told him more than what she had.

"What makes anyone a jaded soldier?" she rolled her shoulders in a lazy shrug. "You go out, you fight, blast a few peoples skulls off, and you watch your men die. It's not a new story."

She was a sole survivor then – the forced casual tone, the way her gaze stared out into the distance as if she could see the men staring back at her from the inky black. Probably lost all her men. Was it because of her orders, or because they'd all had shady orders? Was it an oversight in the situation, or just bad luck?

Each answer she offered gave him at least five questions in response. He was partially surprised to admit that the more they spoke, the more he wanted to figure out what the real answer was.

Maybe it was selfish, wanting to focus on someone else problems for once instead of his own. But considering how the last two months had gone, he didn't think he could really be held accountable. Pondering over the mysterious past of a stranger was better than having to sit and remember that his best friend – the man who taught him the value of a life, even one as sick as Dr. Saleon's – was dead. And just maybe he was to blame for that.

"It may not be a new one, but it's your story," he said, easily flowing into the next subject. While she was an interesting distraction from his own inner turmoil, he understood not wanting to discuss something. If she had asked him something similar he would have been just as evasive. "So, of all the ships in the universe, you board this one. I'm assuming you got on at Earth. You in it for the long haul?"

And by that he meant Omega, of course. She shrugged.

"Don't know yet. The 'verse is a big place. Think I'm gonna get off at Illium. People don't ask as many questions." She gave him a pointed glance that was more mirth than malice.

He raised his hand to his chest, letting it hover over his heart. "Your words wound me."

She shifted in her seat, grumbling through pursed lips as a grin tried its damndest to slip through. "I'll wound you with more than just words in a moment."

He laughed outright at that one, shaking his head and reclining back on the bench. Even though this was a casual conversation and he was in no way, shape, or form looking to start a profile on the woman, his detective mind was three steps ahead of him. It catalogued every subtle movement, the way she spoke, how she danced around certain topics. His mind flashed back to her initial approach – she had no obvious signs of a wound, so a discharge was unlikely. She wasn't active military, she had said as much, but she didn't seem mentally unstable enough to warrant a discharge in that regard either.

So, she left. His mandibles fluttered slightly as his mind pieced it together. Something happened – something bad enough to leave an invisible scar in her psyche – and she left the Alliance not long after. It wasn't so long ago that she forgot her training, but long enough that the likelihood of this just being another case of PTSD was slim.

The pieces were adding up, but the picture they were trying to paint was still way too cloudy to understand. Not that he wanted to understand. Aside from that damn insatiable curiosity that had made him a good investigator in the first place, nothing was really tying his attentions to the woman. She was just another face, another soldier with another story. It was more in common than he had with many people, though, so he bought that as his explanation.

Garrus' father had always said that he was too curious for his own good. It seemed that, for once, they could agree on the same thing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five:**

She still didn't know his name.

Shepard had been sharing a bench and actually talking with this turian for at least three hours now, and they'd talked about everything but themselves. When it was clear that personal questions were off limits to both of them they'd delved into discussions regarding things from the latest omni-tool upgrades to the latest Blasto movie.

It was strange, but she was actually starting to like the guy. The turian. Her bench warmer. Her lips nearly quirked at the nickname. Oh, don't mind the crazy human just smiling at her own thoughts, she just forgot how normal people are supposed to interact. She was quick to school her features.

A part of her wanted to proudly strut off her new friendship in front of her first therapist, the one who'd dare suggest that her past affiliations made her unfit for active duty. Withdrawn and xenophobic, her ass. Shepard was many things, and not all of them good. She could readily admit this to anyone with the forethought to ask. She was paranoid, secretive, reclusive, and excessively violent; but one thing she was not was racist. Or xenophobic, or specist, however the hell you wanted to put it.

The thing that people just didn't seem to understand, no matter how many times you tried to explain, was that family was family, no matter what. Even if you don't believe the same things they do it doesn't mean you loved them any less.

"What are the chances of people stealing this bench if I get up?" Shepard asked, turning her head to look at him. She was tired, cranky, and probably more than a little hungry. She was used to not eating, mostly because she forgot, so she couldn't tell if the vague discomfort in her stomach was from hunger or sickness. She generally never could tell, until it was too late.

"Well, any sane turian or salarian would avoid it based on the scent alone," he responded with a shrug. "Can't say much for the humans or the asari. You may be out of luck."

She sighed, rubbing her eyes as she pushed back the jet lag that was creeping up on her senses. "I have a proposal."

"Is this when you ask me to marry you?" he asked dryly. She snorted.

"No, I mean – you stick here and watch the bench, and I'll go get food. I promise it will be dextro, but I can't promise that it'll be edible," she grinned weakly. "I'm hungry and my legs are cramping and I really don't want to lose my seat. Not after all that work."

He shook his head, "As if I'd kick you out of it after you worked so hard to keep it." He nodded, "Yeah, I'll watch it. I don't think anyone is stupid enough to take this bench now."

Shepard was already pushing herself to her feet before he finished talking, groaning as her legs protested. She twisted herself around, working the kinks out of her body. She ran her hand over her neck, rolling her head and sighing as the knots worked themselves out. "Right. Give me a moment, I'll be right back."

She didn't wait for a response this time, trotting off towards the cafeteria. Figuring out what she wanted to eat wasn't that difficult considering the astonishing lack of options, but the turian was another matter. She stared down at the meals with a frown, her brow ticking slightly in irritation. What the hell was she supposed to choose?

"Levo food is over there," an unfamiliar flanging voice said, rather unhelpfully. She glanced at the turian behind her, narrowing her eyes.

"I noticed," she drawled. "Look, what's good here? I'm picking something up for a friend."

He eyed her suspiciously for a moment before picking up something that looked like a sandwich filled with potato salad that was way too green and way too mushy. She wrinkled her nose and considered smelling it, but decided against it. She accepted it with a half-assed grin.

"Thanks," she said, raising it to him in a brief salute before placing it on her tray. Luckily the food on board was a step above what the military provided, and cheap enough that buying her new friend (or friend-shaped-thing) a meal didn't put any significant dent in her pockets. She didn't feel bad about spending a few credits extra.

Judging by the look on her turians face when she returned, she'd made a decent choice. She offered it to him before reclaiming her seat and balancing the tray on her lap. She pushed the sleeves of her hoodie up past her elbow.

"So, tell me something," she said, considering her own sandwich and trying to figure out exactly how she wanted to approach it. It looked kind of messy, and it was with a resigned sigh that she began unwrapping it.

"Could you be a little less vague?" he asked, glancing at her. She shrugged.

"I don't know, I'm just trying to learn. I'm being culturally aware." Shepard looked out into space, as if the starts would suddenly hit her with divine inspiration. She was surprised when it did. "Tell me about Palaven."

He quirked a brow plate, and she had the distinct impression he was mentally rolling his eyes at her. "That isn't what I meant by less-vague. You're asking me to tell you about an entire planet. That's a lot of information."

"Well, then what about where you were raised?" She grimaced as ranch slipped from her sandwich and onto her thumb. She licked it away. "You tell me about Palaven, I tell you about Earth. Sounds like a fair trade to me."

He looked at her for a moment, and she pretended not to notice. Instead, she kept her attention on her sandwich – the picture of nonchalance. Or at least that was what she was going for, she wasn't sure how well it played off.

"I was born in Cipirtine," he finally said, fingers moving to unwrap his sandwich. She wondered how that worked, with three fingers. She made a mental note to try that later, when it wouldn't earn her own fair share of strange looks. She got enough of those as it was. "It's like any other megatropolis in the galaxy, only it's bright. You have cities like Nos Astra, that are all shadows and neon. A city that looks like it's in a constant state of twilight. Cipirtine is the exact opposite. All the buildings are made of glass and marble and they reflect the light. During the day we don't even need lights, and night is almost just as bright."

He took a bite and Shepard watched as he angled his head back slightly, keeping the food in his mouth and not on the front of his armor. It was kind of weird. Was it considered racist to compare him to a parakeet?

"Even when the sun goes down, the moons are still bright enough that lights are mostly just a formality. The only places that are dark are the forests, and even then some of the fauna absorbs enough of the light that they let off a faint glow – not enough to light the whole place, but enough to help you see your way."

Shepard squawked slightly more ranch attempted to escape her sandwich, jumping free and landing on her hoodie no mater how she tried to avert it. He looked at her, raising a browplate, and she motioned for him to continued as she sat her meal down and grabbed a napkin. "Ignore me."

He did so, fairly readily. He seemed to be having nowhere near the troubles she was with his own meal, and for a moment she was almost ridiculously jealous of his sandwich.

"Even in the city, there are plants everywhere. Some people try and keep them back, but they wind up crawling up the buildings within a matter of days. It's easier to just guide them into place, instead of keeping them back completely." He chuckled. "The Vakarian home is surrounded with these blue flowers, it used to drive my dad crazy. He says they never behaved until my mom started looking after them."

She stored that away, mostly out of habit than actual interest. It was the first personal bit of information they'd shared, and she'd finally gotten a name. Vakarian. She'd have to run an extranet search on it later. Nothing personal, just habit.

"The walls of my childhood home were covered in those plants," he was saying. "The blooms never lasted longer than two weeks – the radiation levels curb the population. According to my aunt, the Vakarian clan used the colour as inspiration for the colour of our markings during the Unification wars."

"Why?" Shepard asked, opening eyes she hadn't even realized she had closed. She looked at him. He still had more than half of his sandwich left. He was too busy looking out into space, as if he looked hard enough he would be able to see Palaven waving back at him.

"I've never seen any of those flowers bloom as blue as they did in my yard," he said. "They're the rarest breed. I'm not into horticulture, that was always my mothers thing, but my aunt says it's the acids in the soil. The blue was seen as something to be proud of. She said it was a sign that the Vakarian family was destined to do great things." He chuckled, and the sound was much more bitter than Shepard would have anticipated. "My father hated when she said that. Probably because it was difficult enough getting Solana and I to behave without her encouragement."

Shepard looked at him, swallowing down the respect that was clogging her throat and the strange sense of longing that tugged at her heart strings. "You really love your family," She noted.

"Yeah," He agreed, running his hand over his neck almost bashfully. "I, ah, never got along with my father, but I owe him everything." He glanced at her, mandibles flickering in a grin. "Don't tell him I said that."

She just offered a crooked smile, "I'll keep that in mind considering I'll never meet him."

They shared a moment of companionable silence as they ate. She considered offering him her name, considering she now had at least a surname to refer to him as, but figured that would be only slightly less awkward than constantly wondering what someones name was. It would come up, eventually. She hoped.

"So, I told you about my home," he said, finishing off his sandwich while Shepard realized she still had a good bite of hers left. "What about Earth?"

"Can you elaborate?" she asked, shoving the remnants in her mouth before she got caught in a monologue.

"What's it like? I've never been." He rolled up the wrapper and quirked a brow as ranch slipped from her chin and onto her hoodie. She murmured out a curse around a full mouth and flicked the dressing off with a thumb. She'd have to wash it once she had a washing machine. Christ, getting an apartment was going to suck ass.

She sighed and leaned back against the bench, looking up at the ceiling as she considered his question. How did she even want to start? Her memories of Earth were tainted with knowledge; truths she hadn't known were deadly until Earth was a spec in the rearview mirror.

"Dark," she finally said. "Even when the sun is out, it feels dark. The skyscrapers have gotten so big they block the sun all day, except for when it's almost directly overhead. You know how you said Nos Astra was like a city caught in a perpetual twilight? It's kind of like that, only New York doesn't even have a sunset to look at. Not unless you're near the skyline. New York isn't a place, not really. It isn't an image. It's a state of mind. Maybe in the past it was brighter, maybe it held more hope, but when poverty comes knocking on your door you always wind up in the city. New York has some of the highest crime rates on the planet, and most of the orphanages were too full.

"Of course, I'm biased." She offered a blasé shrug. "I'm sure if you asked anyone else they would defend it. Talk about how it's one of the largest megatropolises in the country, how the lights never go off and the city never sleeps. But I wasn't just a tourist, and I didn't have a great childhood. I don't even know who my parents are. I grew up in the dark of alleyways, running errands for gangs and making my way as best as a kid could. I don't even know my birth name. My mother was the dark and my father was the street."

God, she was getting poetic. She needed to turn this around, quickly. Dredging up bad memories wasn't a great tip to making friends, even temporary ones. She let out an unnecessarily loud sigh, jumping to her feet and stretching out.

"Right. Well. Now that share time is over, I need to sleep. You should probably sleep too, it's dark. Or, I don't know. At least rest. If anyone tries to steal the bench back we can just sit on them, get the message across that way." She grinned, large and fake.

"Right, because that's a great way to make friends," he drawled. His eyes were too sharp, his mandibles too tense, and suddenly all she could hear was the rushing of her blood in her ears and her heart slamming against her ribs.

So, she did what she had always done. She ran.

...

a/n: So, I'm kind of nervous about the progression I've got set for the Shakarian relationship. I just want to emphasize that emotionally, I'm taking their relationship slowly. There will be no sudden and drastic admission of feelings, but that isn't to say they aren't attracted to or intrigued by one another. It's infatuation.

I have a few twists planned for this, and I hope y'all like them alright. I don't think they've been done like this before, not with the things I've got in mind. OR at least I haven't read any.

Anyway. Hope you enjoyed the update!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six:**

For the first time in a long while, Garrus Vakarian found himself thinking about someone other than the Commander. He stayed on the bench long after the woman abandoned her spot with barely a goodbye, staring after her long after the black of her hood disappeared into the crowd. His mind was profiling her deep into the night, facts tossing about in his skull and telling him over and over again that she was dangerous. Logically, he should have found another seat and abandoned any attempts at conversing with her. Logically, avoiding her was the best course of action.

So, he went uneasily to bed, back to the wall and facing his temporary bunk mates, and told himself that when he woke up he would be on the other side of the ship and very steadfastly ignoring her. What he wanted to know now was: when the hell did he change that plan?

He was out here again, duffle tossed over his shoulder as he made his way back over to the bench. He could see her sitting there, staring out into space with a blank expression. Part of him wondered if she thought he had left. His stomach churned slightly when he remembered that he had planned on leaving. Why the hell was he feeling guilty for leaving a stupid bench?

Garrus yawned as he took a seat and settled the duffle at his feet, relaxing into his spot. She was looking at him with a strange expression, one that he couldn't quite read even with his experience. But, she seemed content to say nothing, so he followed her lead.

"There were kids hanging around this side of the ship when I woke up," she said after a long moment. Her voice was soft, way softer than it had been the day before, and he wondered why. "Bunch of teenagers. I kicked them out."

"How'd they take that?" he asked, blatantly watching her. She rolled her shoulders, cracking her neck slightly.

"Oh, you know, the usual. They tried posturing and acting like they were hot shit. I may have threatened to disembowel them with my mind." She grinned wryly, that damnable expression that had crawled through his brain and into his sleep. Biotic, his mind provided.

"I think security would have an issue with you disemboweling their passengers," he retorted dryly.

She shrugged, as if she had already considered that and determined the punishment was irrelevant. "They're teenagers, no one will miss them."

And as easily as that, they were back into step. The awkward silence that had ended their conversation the night before was almost completely forgotten, and before he even realized it was time her stomach was growling and her cheeks were turning a bright pink.

"I, ah, didn't eat breakfast," she admitted.

"That's probably because we slept through it," he said as he stood, rotating his shoulder to work out the kinks. "Lunch is on me this time."

"You sure?" she asked. "I don't mind paying."

He shook his head, "No, I got it. I owe you, don't I?"

The woman made to respond, opening her mouth and even managing to get out a syllable, but he was already walking away and headed towards the cafeteria. He got the same thing they'd had yesterday – or at least, he thinks that was what she got. He couldn't tell, all sandwiches looked the same to him. He grabbed drinks as an afterthought, recognizing the scratch at the back of his throat and assuming that she would be equally thirsty.

She smiled when he returned, and it made him want to throw the tray at the glass and demand she stop. No human had the right to have a smile like that, the damn crooked curve of full lips that slid past his defenses and very quickly became one of his favorite things.

He watched her in the reflection as she ate, focusing intently on her meal and – for once – not sparing him a glance. Yesterday they had been all subtle glances, fueled by suspicion and paranoia. Today she acted as if she trusted him while he sat here and gawked as if he could commit her image to memory. Why would he even want to?

Garrus resisted the urge to shove the sandwich into his mouth, just so he could focus on something else. Clearly he was losing his mind – that was the only explanation. The weeks of black outs and bar fights had finally caught up with him and now he was obsessed with a veritable stranger.

Except that wasn't right. She wasn't a stranger, not really. For all the side-stepping they did when it came to their personal lives, he felt as if he knew her better than anyone else in the galaxy. Had others sat and listened to her speak of her childhood like it was a story from long ago, with that melancholy expression that told him way more than her words ever could? Had he ever told anyone about the flowers that covered the walls of his childhood homes, flowers that had turned into a symbol of everything he'd left behind? He hadn't even told the Commander about that.

Spirits, he was infatuated. With a human! His father was going to lose his mind. He didn't even know her name.

She sneezed, sudden enough that it made him jump, and her water spilled everywhere. She cussed, a litany of human swears that had his brows rising further than he thought possible, and sat her food aside as she struggled with the sopping material of her hoodie. She held it away from her body with a glare as if it had personally offended her, but he was too busy staring at her arms to take note.

More flesh was exposed than he anticipated, pale arms crossed with white scars, shoulders covered by dark strips of fabric and a collar bone that made his mandibles tense against his face. It was while his eyes were glued to the sharp bones that pressed against the suddenly delicate looking expanse of flesh that he saw something that made his jaw clench.

There, at the base of her throat, was a jagged scar. Clearly inflicted by a knife, which meant whoever did it had to get in close to her, while she was unarmed. Which meant it happened outside of the military. Which meant it was personal.

He averted his eyes the moment she made to face him, extending his hand and offering to take the jacket away, but she just sighed and shoved it under the bench. "I'm gonna get cold now," she grumbled, running the flats of her hand over her arms. She kept her chin tucked close to her chest. To any untrained eye it was just another attempt at conserving body heat, but now that he knew what lurked under the dark strips of fabric he knew better. Suddenly Garrus understood the necessity of the hoodie in the relatively warm climate – it wasn't so much an article of clothing as it was a security blanket.

Everything he had noticed about her suddenly fit together like pieces of a puzzle, as if the image she had painted finally came into focus and he could see her life playing before him like a vid. Doing favors for gangs turned into fighting for gangs, wandering dark streets and trusting people until they got close enough to leave marks – physical and mental alike. Joining the army as an escape from the pain of a lonely childhood, but no matter how far she ran she still managed to lose everything.

She noticed the silence. He could tell the moment she did, the moment she looked at him and saw the way he was looking at her, and he knew that their friendship – only hours old – had reached a crossroads. There were only two options. Neither were promising.

The fact that she was still breathing, let alone that she was sitting with him on a space ship in the middle of a vacuum, was suddenly a complete and total miracle. While his mind dealt with this sudden realization and attempted to cope with the idea of all this woman had to go through, she was looking at him almost cautiously; judging how he would respond before he did. How did reading her become so easy?

Spirits, what was wrong with him? He turned to his duffle, forcing his thoughts to the back of his brain for when his current obsession wasn't sitting right beside him, and pulled out a spare shirt. He offered it to her with a casual grin, mandibles spreading welcomingly. "Here. It's not as warm, but if you're cold it'll help."

Green met blue and she seemed to consider him for a long moment. Finally she nodded, reaching out and accepting the garment. "Thanks."

She pulled it on, fiddling with the material until she managed to get its strange shape over the foreign curves of her body, but when the marks were covered she relaxed just enough for him to know that things were okay. He had managed to avert a crisis.

That wasn't to say that he was no longer curious about the marks – no, now that he knew they existed he wanted nothing more than to figure out the story behind each mark. He wanted to know who had done it to her, who had gotten close enough to hurt her. He wanted to fill in those missing pieces of the puzzle, and then he wanted to track them down and place a bullet between their eyes. The world was a dark place, he knew this well, and the way he saw it taking out the scum that had thought to hurt her was just another favor.

He wasn't going to get the answers he wanted on this ship, but maybe if they were both going to Omega he would have more time. First, though, he had to get a name. That was a whole different problem in and of itself. How the hell did you ask someone for their name? 'Oh, hey, so I know I've been sharing a bench with you for about 24 hours now, and I know that we've talked a lot, but I have no idea what to call you'. Did she even know his name?

Spirits, he was horrible at making friends. How had the Commander dealt with him?

"I'm gonna throw away this trash," she said, pulling him from his thoughts yet again as she stood, tray in hand. "Are you done?"

"Yeah, thanks," he placed the remnants of his sandwich on her tray. He watched as she walked off, using the sudden absence as a chance to gather his thoughts.

Tomorrow, they docked at Nos Astra, and from there the only stop left was Omega. Three days and they would part. He didn't know if he was ready for that, not when there was so much he didn't know. Not when there was so much left he wanted to know.

He watched her return, watched the way she casually avoided the bodies cluttering her path, and he knew that he was going to ask her to join him. He wasn't certain what he was going to do in Omega, but he knew one thing: he couldn't stand by and watch the people die around him at the hands of their merc rulers. He didn't think she was either – not really. Not when it mattered.

So, they'd make a team. Two vigilantes, fighting for justice in a world that scorned the very idea. They would team up and help rid the galaxy of a few more smears before going out in a blaze of glory. Death wasn't on his agenda – not actively – but he wasn't a fool. How long could two people last before the dark caught up with them? Omega was more than just a lawless station. It was an idea, it was a living breathing entity that thrived off the desecration and destruction that lingered in every dark corner. That sort of entity couldn't be defeated by a single turian.

But maybe two people stood a chance. Maybe things didn't have to be so dreary.

Maybe Garrus wouldn't be alone when the end finally came. And really, what more could a person ask for?

...

A/N: Just drawing attention to the latest note posted on my profile; I've got writers block, so updates will be slower from now on. Any feedback is greatly appreciated, if you have any questions about why I'm writing this the way I am don't be afraid to ask at all - I'm here to answer any questions you have (:


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven:**

The way he looked at her was terrifying. He didn't look at her like a doll, something fragile to be coddled, but he also didn't look at her like a soldier. No. In the end, he terrified her because he looked at her like she was a person. Shepard had thought, with some measure of fear, that once he saw her arms he would recoil. The only species who hadn't pulled away when they saw the white lines crisscrossing her body had been the krogan.

But not this turian. Vakarian looked at her like she was a person, and that was somehow more threatening than a charging krogan biotic.

Shepard promised herself that she wouldn't make any rash decisions when she went to bed that night. She told herself she would approach her failings in a healthy manner – talk to him, figure out why he looked at her like that (why she deserved that expression because she certainly didn't think she deserved that foreign kindness that gleamed in his eyes, because _she wasn't worth that_) and maybe even get him to open up.

Except, none of that happened. All her plans went out the window the moment she saw a tray of food waiting, a peace offering that only served to fan the panic in her chest.

"I'm getting off at Illium."

Vakarian looked up at her, blinking. She thought she saw his mandibles flicker in some expression of turian emotion that she just didn't understand, but she couldn't tell if it was a trick of the eye or if it had actually happened. She swallowed down the bitter taste that clogged her throat. There was no reason for her to feel guilty for this. How dare she feel guilt for doing what was best?

(_Best for her or best for him?)_

"Decided to take my chances with the asari," she continued, unable to take the sudden silence because if she dare let this fester then that stupid fucking guilt was just going to work its way up her throat and out of her mouth and into the air, and she couldn't take that back once it was out there. "I hear Nos Astra is nice."

He looked at her and dammit, he wasn't allowed to make her feel like this. Like she mattered. How dare he look at her so tenderly?

"It's just as bad as dangerous as Omega," he commented, as casual as ever. As if he didn't know what he did to her. How could he not know? He continued, unaware of her internal struggle. "I figure you can take care of yourself. Also I'm pretty sure any warnings I did offer would go – what's the saying? In one ear and out the other?"

She laughed, despite her best interests. "Yeah, you're not wrong. I've never been very good at taking advice."

There was a long stretch of silence as he considered her, sharp eyes slowly taking her apart piece by piece. He knew too much, saw too much, and she couldn't risk associating with someone like that. Vakarian was the kind of guy who could tear down your defenses with a flick of his mandibles. Just a look pushed her to the edge of confession.

These were her crosses to bear – hers and hers alone. She wasn't ready to place the burden of knowledge on anyone else. He had his own weight on his shoulders, he didn't need to take on hers as well.

And in the end, what was the most terrifying possibility of all was that he would gladly take her pains and place them on his own shoulders. She could see it in the way he looked at her, the way he seemed to subconsciously lean into her.

How did it comes to this? How did they reach this point, where she knew that all he had to do was ask and she would stay by his side? If he asked her to change her mind, to take her seat and join him in Omega, she would do it. In a heartbeat. A word was all it took and she would lay down her duffle and lean into him willingly.

But he didn't. He asked for nothing, and damn it all that only made her want to linger more. How could she let him weasel his way past her defenses? What sick sort of survival instinct allowed things like that to happen? She didn't know him, he didn't know her, _she didn't even know his name_, but here he was ripping through her defenses like they were paper thin.

Outside she could see the approaching city. Nos Astra: the land of perpetual twilight, where money could buy everything, even people. Especially people. The speaker fizzled overhead.

_"Welcome to Nos Astra. The local time is…"_

"Well, that's my stop," Shepard straightened, adjusting her duffle with a grin that didn't feel right. "Nice traveling with you, Vakarian. You certainly made this trip entertaining."

"That's what I'm here for," he wryly responded. "Don't sign any contracts. If I find out you've wound up in indentured servitude I'll have to find you just to say I told you so."

"What, no daring rescue attempts?" She asked, cocking her hip.

"I figure by the time I got there you would have taken care of that," he shrugged.

She laughed, shaking her head and running her fingers through her hair. Fuck, she had to go now, because the longer she lingered the more she wanted to sit and oh so casually forget when the ship was leaving. _Oh, damn, looks like I missed final call, guess I'm joining you in Omega after all_.

"Later, Vakarian," she said – it was all she offered before she turned on the spot, stepping away from the bench that had been some sort of home for the past week. She ignored the lead that seemed to drag her feet, forced herself through the metal halls and out on to the glistening streets of Nos Astra. God, it was so like New York it almost made her skin crawl. The only difference was the humans were replaced by asari, and neon seemed to be the lighting of choice.

"Welcome to Nos Astra," the concierge greeted with a smile, well practiced and perfect on her pale blue face. "Would you like to call a cab?"

Shepard shook her head, forcing her feet forward. "No, no. I think I'll walk."

…

Shepard tried really hard to keep her mental promise. She booked a hotel, way more expensive than she really could afford. She grabbed a meal, sat down and enjoyed freshly cooked food while she watched asari and volus barter and bribe like it was going out of style. She was finally thinking that she could do this, that staying in this empty city was the right thing to do.

And then she saw a turian, and though his markings were all wrong he had the same colour armor and the same steely grey plates and she remembered she was still wearing his spare shirt.

She hesitated for a moment, fingers twisting in the sleeves as she slid her fingers over the thick material. Surely he had more than just this shirt, if he didn't that was just lunacy, but what if it was his favorite shirt? Did turians value clothes like humans did? What if he needed this shirt?

In an instant she was on her feet, tossing a few credits on the table to pay for her meal as she sprinted off. Against all rhyme and reason, she ran back towards the docks and prayed that she still had time to get back on. She prayed she wasn't too late, that the docking bay hadn't closed itself off and ended any chance of her seeing Vakarian ever again.

Christ, this was such a bad idea, she should stay in Illium and learn to live amongst the accountants and the bureaucrats. She could learn to live like this.

But sitting there, staring at that lone turian, she realized she didn't want to. Omega was dark and dangerous and everything she knew she could deal with. It was the better choice, the smarter choice, and if Omega just happened to come with a certain blue turian, well, who was she to complain?

"Final boarding call for flight 12567 to Omega."

Shepard cussed, hear thrumming in her chest and beating against her rib cage like a jackhammer. Her job turned into an all out run, weaving between confused tourists and chastising attendants. She made it to the boarding area with moments to spare, shoving her ticket in the flight attendants hands and coughing out a brief explanation.

"Welcome back, Ms. Shepard." the attendant greeted with an empty smile as she handed the pass back.

"Thanks." She offered the attendant a mocking salute and a quirk of her lips as she scurried back on board.

She was barely five steps in before they announced the ships departure and the door closed at her back.

_Well. No going back now_.

She exhaled sharply as her feet crossed the threshold and lead her back to the observation deck, back into the metal world that had served as her home for the past week. Back into the world that had blue eyes that saw too much and offered just enough. Eyes without expectation, eyes without judgment.

Eyes that looked up at her, tinged with shock as his mandibles flapped uselessly. She opened her mouth to explain, to just let everything fall from her lips and into the air.

_You've gotten under my skin, and I don't understand why, and even though I barely know you I feel as if I've always known you. I feel like you understand what I'm saying even when I don't even know what's going on. I can't stop thinking about you and we just met and this is crazy and you're not even human but you are the only person I've ever met that's made me want to confess. You're the only person who looks at me like I'm a person. You're the only one who stayed after they found out I was broken. And I know I don't deserve you, but God I want you, and is it too much for me to ask if you will let me stay with you?_

"I, ah. I still had your shirt," she said instead, pulling on the material. She probably should have taken it off, if she meant to give it back, but she still hadn't washed her hoodie and, well. There was just no easy way for her to explain away the fact that she'd refused to take off his shirt even though it didn't even fit well.

"The ships leaving," he said lamely, refusing to look away from her. As if he thought she would disappear.

"So it is," she agreed, running her fingers through her hair and forcing a deliberately casual tone. "Guess you're stuck with me for a few more days, then." She nudged his calf with her foot. "Mind scooting? I hear this is the best bench in the house."

His mandibles flared in what she now knew with relative certainty was a grin, and he slid over into what had been her spot. Except now it was his spot. She didn't mind (and she very pointedly refused to consider why that didn't bother her, because if she did then she would just launch herself into another panic attack and throw herself from the ship).

She slid into the empty space, resting her duffle beside his and relaxing back into her bench, like a foot slipping into a well-worn boot. He shifted to accommodate her presence, resting his arm along the back of the seat, and even though he wasn't human and she doubted he recognized it as the invitation it was, her body easily relaxed into his side.

He didn't pull away.

...

A/N: Hey. I've still got some pretty major writers block, and it's finals week on top of that, so, I'm not certain when I'll get back to a regular update cycle. I've also come across some minor bumps in the road regarding what I want to happen in the upcoming chapters, and I don't want to post anything I'm going to regret. Give me some time to get my headspace back in order and then we should be back to regular updates.

Thanks for everyone who's stuck through the sudden silence. Lots of love.

B.E. Nomads


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight:**

Garrus spent the hour she had disappeared wondering what he should do. He knew chasing after her was unacceptable, because it was clear that she was running from something. This time, that something was him. But she was running when she got on this ship, and was it selfish of him to want to be the one to make her stop? And if that wasn't possible, then he at least wanted to be the one to run with her.

They were both broken, shells of who they used to be, but maybe they could at least be broken together. How was it that human saying went – misery welcoming company?

Then, suddenly and out of no where, she came back. Beyond all hope and reason, she was here, leaning into him in a silent plea for comfort he knew she would never admit to. He had forgotten all about the shirt he had offered her, focused as he was on not thinking, but now he was tempted to nuzzle it. _Or did he want to nuzzle her_?

And yet, all of these thoughts were circling in his head, and he still didn't know her name. Did she even know his? She had called him Vakarian, but did he tell her his first name?

"You know, I don't think we ever properly introduced ourselves." He said as curiosity got the best of him. He glanced over at her, flicking his mandibles as he gauged her expression.

"Well, I didn't expect to spend the whole trip sharing a bench with you." She retorted quickly.

He laughed, "I'm Garrus," he said instead. He waited, watching her from the corner of his eyes, waiting for a response. For an instant he wondered if he was even going to get an answer. Had he been misreading the situation?

"My name is Jane," she said finally. "Jane Shepard."

Her name gave him pause, and for a moment he considered pushing her away with a bitter laugh. Shepard. Of course her name was Shepard. It seemed the death of the Commander would haunt him even now. For a moment he dared to think – even hope – that she was related to him, that in this world of darkness he had found one single thread back to his dearly departed friend. He knew she wasn't – John was an Alliance kid, born and raised in the military, roaming from spacecraft to spacecraft. Jane was Earthborn, an orphan who didn't know her own parents. The chances were slim, so slim that he dismissed them.

"I'm haunted by Shepard's," he joked, even though the thought wasn't at all funny. He sighed, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"I'm a very good looking ghost, then," she retorted with hardly a blink. "Am I allowed to ask why I've been demoted to specter?"

The word choice was unfortunate, but they didn't push him away. "If I tell you, you owe me something in return," he said instead. "It's personal."

She was silent for a moment and he wondered if she would object. It followed the rules of the game they had played up until now. He saw no reason to change them, especially if they would get him out of answering something he would rather leave well enough alone.

"Alright," she agreed after a moment, pressing her cheek against the coolness of his armor. "Deal."

A part of him had expected – even hoped – that she would say no. The commander had only just passed; it was all still so fresh. Was he really ready to start talking about it now, to a veritable stranger?

His mouth opened and he meant to change the subject. What came out was the answer.

"You heard about the Battle of the Citadel, right?" he asked, refusing to look at her. He wasn't certain he could tell her this – tell her about his best friend dying – if he was watching her. He didn't want to see the look that crossed her face when she decided he was a liar.

"Yeah, we heard about it," she said. "Big battle between Saren and the first human spectre."

"Well, that was my commanding officer," he said, a hint of pride slipping through his subvocals. He doubted she heard them. "I was recruited at the beginning of the mission to take down Saren, back when I was just a C-Sec officer. I was in charge of the investigation against Saren and I'd been taken off the case. Shepard let me join his crew after the Council made him a spectre. I flew with him for months, fighting geth and tracking down any clues we could. I was even there at the end. I watched as the Alliance fleet destroyed Sovereign and saved the Council on Shepard's command."

"And to thank him, they sent the Commander to the terminus systems," she murmured softly, still pressed against him. Was he still comforting her, or were their roles suddenly switched? "Were you there? When the geth shot the Normandy down?"

He shook his head, running his fingers over his face as if he could push the swelling emotions aside. "No. Shepard got me into spectre training, wrote me a letter of recommendation and everything. He wanted me to make my way up the ranks so when the time came we could face the reapers together, head on with the council at our backs." He laughed, a bitter sound that shocked even him. "All that work, and the Council just turned their back on him. On us."

"He was more than just a CO to you," Shepard – no, Jane said. She wasn't Shepard, he couldn't call her that. "He was a friend. I saw the vids of the funeral. The way people talked about him…" She shook her head, the faintest movement she could manage without extracting herself. "He was a good man. Everyone thought so."

Her words were comforting, but they just made bitter resentment clog his throat. He had to swallow the emotions down, force his anger back, because he couldn't take it out on her. Not when she was listening – not when she actually seemed to care that Shepard was dead. Or she at least cared that he cared. Not when she came back to him, even though he was certain all her instincts yelled at her otherwise.

"Everyone forgot about the Normandy after it was gone," he murmured, lowering his head and staring off into space. "No one talks about Wrex, or Liara, or Tali, and I only get recognized because John shoved me out of obscurity and into the spectre spotlight. Ashely gets recognized because she's human, because she's Alliance." _Because Shepard loved her_.

"Why do you think I left?" She asked, and he finally looked at her. She had that crooked grin again, only this time it was sadder than the others. "The Alliance forgets the ones that matter, every time. Once they have a figurehead, the people who worked to make things possible are forgotten. The people who are lost are forgotten."

"Is this when you tell me why you're on this ship?" He asked, glancing at her. "Fair is fair, after all."

"The reason I'm on this ship isn't nearly a fair trade," she shook her head. "I got on a ship cause I couldn't stay on Earth any more. It was so…quiet. Domestic. It drove me insane." She laughed, pulling away from his side to lean forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. "I left the Alliance to get away from the death, and I left Earth because there wasn't enough of it."

"So you board a ship to Omega, the hell hole of the galaxy," he said, watching her with sharp eyes. "Looking for a fight?"

"Hell, I didn't know what ticket I bought," she said. "That's the funny thing. I just bought a ticket, first one that got me away from Earth. This was it. Omega, though…it's what I'm used to. I can deal with that." She looked at him, a subtle glance that didn't escape his attention. "Why'd you go to Omega?"

He hesitated before answering, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his neck. How could he answer that? He wasn't even sure why he chose Omega. There had been some sort of consideration, yeah, and he'd thought about it, but he didn't put a lot of time into the decision.

"I'm tired of sitting and doing nothing," he said instead. "On Omega, there are no rules, no red tape to hold me back. I can do something, actually fight for something worth protecting. The Citadel has dozens of C-Sec officers who can take my place, but Omega doesn't have anybody."

"So you're going to be a vigilante?" She asked, shaking her head. "I hear vigilantes have a shit salary, and their life insurance policy is even worse. I just hope you're as good as you think you are."

"Oh, I'm good," he retorted quickly. Instinctively. Half of the time with her, he didn't even have to think about what he was going to say – it just slipped out. He hadn't had that sort of rapport with someone since Shepard. The coincidence was not lost on him. "I'm one of the best."

"You may believe that, but I haven't seen any proof of that," she shrugged and he grinned.

"Is that a challenge, Jane?" he asked. Her nose wrinkled up at the name.

"It just may be, Vakarian," she retorted. "Do you have to call me that?"

"It's your name," he responded, deliberately avoiding the true purpose of the question. If she noticed, she didn't say anything.

"It's the name I put down on my papers when I became a person," she explained. "Shepard is what I know, it's what I've been called for as long as I can remember. My name is all I have. I'd rather you call me Shepard, or nothing at all."

He wondered how much of it was true. A part of him – the larger part of him – thought that this was her own strange idea of helping him. He was upset and even thinking the Commanders name was difficult, and here Jane was shoving it in his face. Demanding he recognize it.

Well, Garrus Vakarian was many things, but one thing he was not was a coward. He never backed down from a challenge.

"Alright then, Shepard," he agreed, swallowing down the pain that slipped through his subvocals. "Then you have to call me Garrus. Vakarian is my father."

"But Vakarian just rolls off the tongue!" She protested with a playful grin. "_Vakarian_. It just kind of drips off your tongue, like honey."

Garrus was fairly certain the words weren't meant to be in any way provocative, but there was something about the way she said his name that sent a shiver down his spine. It was the first thing that actively made him realize that he was attracted to a human. Honestly, physically attracted to her. Spirits, his father would faint if he could see him now. Garrus didn't like humans, he didn't understand the appeal of the fleshy mounds on their chests and the strange colour of their fringes and the fullness of their hips, but Jane – Shepard – had something about her that drew him in like a moth to flame.

Spirits, he was a xenophile.

He had to change the subject, had to get it onto something that wouldn't drag his mind into the spaces that were so inviting and so terrifying all at the same time. Jumping feet first into those thoughts was a one-way street and he didn't like the idea of being cornered. "So, what's the fair trade?"

"I'm sorry?" she asked, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion.

"You said why you boarded this ship wasn't a fair trade," he reminded her. "What is?"

She was silent for a long moment, watching him. Even though her eyes were focused on him, he could tell that her mind was somewhere else – somewhere far away. He wondered if she would back away from his question – he would have let her. Screw fair and unfair, it was her life they were talking about, she didn't have to share anything she didn't want to. He opened his mouth to say as much – to give her the out she wanted – but she began speaking before he could get the first syllable out.

"I joined the Alliance when I was 15," she said. "I lied about my age – and it isn't like there were any papers on me. I told them I was 18, and they had to believe me. Who else could they ask – the mother I didn't know? They let me join, and a week later I was in basic training."

She ran her fingers through her hair, distracting him for a moment as he watched the strange strands part and ripple over her hand. He wondered if it was as soft as it looked.

"I flew through the ranks, faster than they expected. Before I knew it I was asked to join the N training program. I wasn't even 20. Of course I joined, I mean, who would turn down an invitation like that?" She shook her head. "I made it all the way to N6 by the time I was 24. I worked my ass off, over and over again."

She got silent suddenly, staring out into space as if whatever she was thinking about – whatever she was about to say – was happening right before her eyes. As if she could see it. It made his throat clench in concern, tempted him to reach out and ground her back in reality. He refrained. Better to let her find her own words before imposing his presence on her.

"It was supposed to be a simple mission," she finally said, her voice softer than he had heard it. "A human colony, fresh off the ships, went dark. My marine unit was sent in to investigate, figure out what happened. Everything was perfect, not a building out of place, but there were no civilians to be seen. It was empty. So, we set up camp, decided to investigate the next day when we could maybe find some clues."

She shook her head, pressed her face into her hand as if she could force the images from her mind. "I woke up to the ground shaking, screams everywhere. There were at least five thresher maws, just ravaging everything. By the end of the week my entire squad was dead, and I was the last one left standing. I don't really remember much past that. I just – I woke up in a med bay. They sent me through therapist after therapist, trying to determine if I was stable, and even though they all said I was fine I didn't feel fine. I didn't feel like I was alright."

Shepard laughed, bitter and full of resentment. "You know what the Alliance did? After compensating me for the loss, they offered me a position in N7 training. They gave me a promotion! I watched my team die, burned to the bone by acid, and because I survived they decided I was a great candidate for N7 training. Their deaths landed me a promotion, and the thought of it…" She shook her head. "It makes me sick even now."

"So you left." He stated when it became clear she had nothing else to add.

She nodded. "Yeah. Resigned. The Alliance still owes me a vacation for the years I put in, but I've never cashed in. Doesn't seem right. So I spent five years topside, trying to live a normal life. Didn't work out like I planned." She laughed dryly, "Nothing ever does."

"If things worked out like we planned, I don't think we'd have ever met," Garrus offered, staring out into the dark as he had so many times this trip. Shepard smiled slightly, crooked grin reflecting in the glass and sliding warm fingers around his heart.

"I don't know," she said, leaning back and resting her head against his shoulder. "Fate can be funny like that."

He was quiet for a moment. "Yeah," he said softly. "I guess it is."

...

A/N: Hey, so, my posts are still going to be sparse. Last semester in college means all my creative juices are going into passing my classes. I'll try to keep this going relatively quickly, but I make no promises. Again, thanks for everyone for waiting so patiently. I appreciate all of you 3

B.E. Nomads


End file.
